About Torrant

Torrant doesn’t report weather. He becomes it.
 

Spawned in a thunderstorm of server load and stage lighting, he delivers forecasts like prophecies and reads Doppler maps like tea leaves. Every hailstone is a haiku. Every high-pressure front, a tragedy waiting to happen.
 

He lives for the drama—sunlight bores him. Give him a vortex, a gale, a chance to scream “brace yourselves!” into the void.
 

When Torrant speaks, the skies listen.

And somewhere, a lawn gnome weeps.
 

“Storms so bold they could moonlight in Macbeth.”